Crescendo
by Miss221B
Summary: He would not cry. A…thing was breathing in his ear and it sounded more terrified than him, and Sam would not cry. Feedback much appreciated! First thing I've written in a while, and I would love to know what yall think!
1. Chapter 1

_"It's okay Sam," the voice arose from behind him (and voice doesnt even begin to cover it no it cant be a voice voice is too **close** is too **human** and he cannot be **human** oh god please)_

 _The…noise, continued, a litany of promises Sam knew were meant to be broken in a trembling crescendo (and every note of it was a crescendo Sam felt high he felt like the entire world was crashing around itself with every word because what else would those last words you would ever hear sound like)_

 _He would not cry. A…thing was breathing in his ear and it sounded more terrified than him, and Sam would not cry. He was pretty sure there was a knife somewhere, he had seen the glint in the bare candle light, and he could feel it now dancing over his skin. Some part of him wanted to take comfort in the thing's obvious fear, some survival instinct wanted to share it with him and coerce him and pretend like nothing had ever happened. Like this thing (boy its a boy human child boy) who had been his brother's **friend** hadn't just murdered its own father, its own brother, feet from Sam._

 _God help him, the way he looked at Sam was like Sam was the loose link after everything was over. But not a link he wanted to cut. He looked at Sam with the same reverence that Dean had (does still does not over he will see dean again) and he had never given Sam the time of day before. And now he murmurs to Sam that he's not going to kill him, no, Sam's gonna be fine, they're both going to be fine, in a voice Sam used to fall asleep listening to next door. A voice that Sam doesn't believe for a second, no sir, his father's raised him better than that._

 _There's a glint of madness in the boy's eyes and it suddenly clicks to Sam that it isn't supposed to click. The only logic that killed that boy (luke his name was luke and god he was younger than sam was) that killed his father's friend was one that would be forever lost on Sam. There was a key to it all, and the boy had lost it before he'd even been born. So what the hell did that leave Sam with?_

 _It left him with rough, trembling hands pushing and prodding Sam down into the couch. He had always hated that couch, with its itchy red velvet. But now he felt blessed that it was facing the door, not the hallway where they were. Sam wanted to promise himself that he wouldn't end up in that hallway. He wanted to believe that he would make it out of this alive. Whole. But all of Sam's hope was splattered along the wall behind him, dripping to the floor. Sam's promises lay in a missing brother, endless miles away. Sam's faith was as good as dead. And, as he looked into those crazed eyes, he realized that he was too._


	2. Chapter 2

_Hey guys! Quick note, I mention it but I want to state it clearly somewhere that Sam is 14 in this, so it is preseries._

 _Still not 100% sure what I'm going to do with this exactly but the climax has been decided and I sort of allude to it in this chapter. I'm loving this so far, and warnings for mental health issues. This is going to get messed up._

 _Reviews inspire me and make my day!_

Some might say that Sam Winchester, the youngest (and smartest, thank you very much Dean) Winchester should be grateful to have any book in his hands, considering his father's apparent passion for child neglect. Sam Winchester would say, yeah no thanks Dad, stop trying to wrap hunting up in shiny paper hoping to fool my attention like a child with a shiny bobble. He wanted to throw the entirely in Latin fat tomb of lore down at his father's feet, proving that he was not stupid enough to be fooled by such a simple trick.

John, judging by the coy grin, seemed to think that he had discovered the secret outlet to his son. It had taken him a while, yes sir, but he knew his son, of course, and finally realized that taking hunting out of gun form and putting it in book form was the way to catch the little child up in the whole messed up web. The part that frustrated Sam the most was the "knowing his son" part. John knew nothing about Sam, and even this brief and sure to be succinct moment of pleasure for his father felt like a momentous loss to Sam in some great war.

However he had a nagging suspicion that throwing down the "thoughtful gift" would not be an efficient way to prove his point. Maybe _that_ was the reason for his father's dumb grin. Sam's eyes darted out from the old pages to his father's face. He scrutinized the man, his eyes wrinkling in concentration. John was laughing, seemingly care free, and talking to an old family friend in Bobby's kitchen. His father and Brett's conversation consisted of a thorough line up of shotguns (because asshole hunter John was still asshole hunter father so of course he had to be lame as all get out) and there was absolutely no indication that John was paying any attention to his youngest. Which was a complete lie. Sam's father was scary aware. His years in the marines coupled with the last fourteen years of frantic and paranoid hunting had produced what could well be qualified as superhuman senses on his father. There was nothing the man did not see or hear within a fifty mile radius. This was a fact that had been proven to Sam and Dean numerous times during their childhood, all in very unfortunate circumstances. So, no, Sam didn't believe that his father wasn't entirely aware of Sam's every move, despite being focused on someone else on the other side of the room. In fact, he had basically positioned the entire room as to not have Sam in his direct line of sight. Probably on purpose so he could activate "stealth dad mode" (read: "stealth John mode") and make his tactical spying seem less plausible. Well Sam was onto him, knew exactly what the older man was doing. Turning Sam into some sort of experiment, seeing how he'll react. _Probably trying to lay out an entire life plan of training for me_ , Sam thought bitterly.

His fingers twitched on the old leather (at least it was a pretty book – no, focus Sam) and he suddenly became aware of how he must look in his father's eagle eye peripheral. God, he was just feeding into his father's damn experiment. He felt suffocated, like he was going to jump up and run out of the window. Every. Damn. Day. This is what life felt like with John. Just as Sam felt like his inner turmoil was about to reach some probably fatal climax, a voice from his side broke him from his revere.

"Sammy," Dean called from the adjoining living area, sprawled out on the carpet with Andrew. The older boys were picking through an old box of charms and jewelry (cleared by Bobby first, of course). Sam knew by the well hid worry in his brother's eyes that Dean knew exactly what he was doing when he indicated for Sam to come sit with him. He didn't know whether to be frustrated or grateful so he settled on just plopping down on the old carpet and trying not to look back at John.

"Bobby said we could pick out some stuff from in here," Dean began, his tone amiable in an attempt to calm his brother, and held his hand out over Sam's. Looking inquisitively at his brother's closed palm, Sam opened his to accept whatever it was. A ring fell softly into his hand, and he turned it over. It was carved from an earthy and dark wood. Wings made up the sides, coming together on the top in an elegant and sculptured face. The bird looked something like an eagle, but Sam couldn't put his finger on what exactly it was. The features were ever so slightly distorted, and the neck odd in an odd way. Still, it was beautiful and he knew that every fragment of it was just as it was meant to be.

Sam became aware of Dean still watching him from the sidelines of what had become the Sam show. He shook his head slightly, trying to pull himself out of his head where he had been fully lodged all night. The younger brother smiled at the older, appreciating the gesture and slipping it on. He knew about Dean's fascination with rings. Not girly things, mind you, no way. That would be to chick-flicky. Carved and smelted things. Charms and talismans. Things with a story. Things that would protect him or Sam. Sam had lost track of all the trinkets Dean had picked up over the years, and more so the ones he tried to subtly slip over Sam's neck before a hunt. There were only two Sam could really keep track of. The amulet that he had given Dean when they were younger, and the original ring. Sam knew it was their mother's wedding ring. He couldn't remember where he got that information from, probably Bobby at some point because heaven forbid Dean or Dad ever talk about it. It was one of those things Sam knew never to bring up. But he knew it with a burning surety that had become a comfort.

Noting a ring similar to the one Sam had been given on Dean's left hand, his mood genuinely lifted and his hand curled tighter around his heavy finger. He smiled at his watching brother.

He was about to inquire about the surely mysterious properties of the rings, knowing it was likely some soul bonding, safety within each other stuff that Dean knew well enough about but would never tell Sam. Sam always figured it out though, and it always made him misty eyed. Not that he would ever tell Dean that. He just said, "thanks dude." His tone was quiet, wanting the moment to be just for himself and Dean. He was yanked out of that fantasy by the boy laying across from them.

"Hey Dean," Andrew quipped, holding up an amulet with a Cheshire grin on his face. The talisman woman hanging from the leather strip was fully nude, and the teen laughed before throwing it at his brother, who intercepted it with much of the same reaction. Sam rolled his eyes at the two dumbasses, willing away his anger for the other boy interrupting.

"Sweet," Dean said, rolling around the little piece of wood in his hand. But Sam recognized his tone and the light way he observed it. It was soon to be tossed back in the pile, discarded as a toy and nothing else. Sure enough, his hands went to toss it as their father called him into the kitchen. Sam tried not to flinch at the booming voice, and Dean tossed a sympathetic look in his direction before trotting into the other room.

Suddenly aware he was alone with Andrew, Sam looked down at his ring, twisting it around his finger. It wasn't that he had anything _against_ the other kid. They had known the family for a while, since Sam was six or seven. Their fathers would go hunting two or three times a year, leaving Sam, Dean, Andrew, and the younger Luke alone or with Bobby. Recently the two eldest had begun disappearing on the hunts too, leaving Sam with a friendly and overly chatty Luke. He missed his brother on those occasions, but didn't really mind Andrew not being there. The older kid had never actually done anything to Sam, at least nothing Sam could remember or was aware for. He caught himself in the middle of that thought and felt astonished with himself. What the hell did that mean? Andrew was a…good kid. Sure, sometimes he looked at Sam a little weird and a little too quietly, especially when they were alone. But being raised a hunter in a messed up world wasn't really the shortcut to emotional stability and mental assurance.

Suddenly, Sam went still, aware that he was rambling in his mind because he could feel the other boy's gaze locked solidly on him. His skin prickled in goosebumps and he stopped breathing for a moment. His finger stilled on the ring, and the lack of distracting motion made it hard for Sam to not look up. His breath bated, he waited desperately for Dean to come back, breaking the death stare Sam knew was being directed at his very soul. Tense as he was, when a loud bout of raucous laugher rumbled suddenly through the house he jumped and couldn't help looking up. His eyes didn't make it to the kitchen though, stopping in their path at Andrew.

The boy had sat straight up from his lounging position on the floor without Sam noticing. His knees were brushing up against the boxes, having moved significantly closer to Sam. His eyes were locked on Sam's chest. Somehow he figured it was better than his face, but the solemn and serious glare made him want to reach his hand up to cover his heart. Suddenly he got the eerie feeling that Andrew wasn't looking into his heart but something else entirely. Something Sam couldn't cover and protect. He shivered inadvertently, and froze again once the piercing gray eyes rose slowly to trace his bare throat, linger on his lips, and end on his eyes. His wide open and suddenly very afraid eyes. Andrew's fingers twitched by his side and Sam was assaulted by visions of hands around his throat, sharp thumbs piercing brutally piercing the vulnerable and struggling skin, just enough oxygen to assure he bled out first, under the heavy but not warm not at all weight of –

Dean broke the eye contact, flopping down across the boxes in front of the fire in between Sam and _him_. One arm leaving space between it and his chest, inviting Sam to lay down with him. As Andrew's gaze shifted toward the fireplace as well, Sam felt everything that had just attacked his mind leaking out on the floor. What had just happened? God, what was happening to him? He took a deep breath, knowing he was tired and jumpy from the last hunt, and acknowledged Dean by burrowing deep into his side, surprising his brother. Dean shuffled, accompanying the larger than expected amount of little brother assaulting him with a confused but pleased smile spreading on his face languidly. As he did, Sam got the feeling that Andrew was staring at him again from across the room from behind Dean's back. His hand tangled deeper into Dean's shirt and he tried to let his brother's heartbeat sooth him into sleep.

He dreamt of a broken throat and withered hands reaching deep into his chest and holding his soul.

 _Reviews are my rock salt so let's get this Impala on the road!_


	3. Chapter 3

Sam woke up alone in he and Dean's bed, the cold morning air radiating from the window pane. He peered over the covers, and saw his father's bed still made on the other side of the room. He hadn't come to bed. Great, that always ended well. His eyes moved lazily over the room, searching for his sibling. The bathroom door stood open, revealing a lack of big brothers in the dark cubby hole. The pillow smelled like Dean though, so he couldn't have gotten up long ago. He closed his eyes, concentrating. No noise could be heard in the old house, and Sam's curiosity peaked. He abandoned the warm blankets for the cold floor, and padded to the stairs. He noted the other guest room along with Bobby's being empty, and concluded he was the last to wake. He was surprised his father hadn't woken him. Probably Dean's doing, and he felt a rush of gratitude towards his older sibling.

As he moved down the stairs, in the slow manner that the early morning demanded, he became aware of soft voices, probably in the kitchen. They were serious, and Sam knew that their break between hunts, this time totaling a whopping twelve hours, was over. He approached the door warily, and found everyone around the rackety kitchen table. The tension was palpable. Everyone looked fairly disgruntled, and Dean's disturbed expression gave Sam shivers. Despite his cautious avoidance of the well-known squeaky boards, John's eyes immediately darted up to stare hard at Sam. His expression did not change, as though Sam himself had already been involved in the unfortunate discussion. Having the dark and agitated eyes directed so strongly at him stopped him in his tracks. Dean saw the direction his father was looking, and froze slightly himself before whipping around. If anything, he became more distressed looking at his woken brother. Bobby and Brett mimicked John, their gaze only slightly softer. Luke sat in the corner, fiddling his thumbs and specifically not looking up. Andrew let his gaze slide across the room, taking in everyone else's expressions before landing on Sam, seemingly unimpressed. The lack of emotion in those eyes, despite the strong and uncomfortable ones also being directed at him, was the most disturbing. He had to will himself to look back at Dean, who appeared to have collected himself and was now staring at Sam with that damn mask over his face. Time stood still for a moment, and Sam had no idea what to say. So he settled with the easy.

"'Morning?"

Dean's eyes closed as though in pain, and he turned away, bringing a hand up to pinch his nose pensively. Sam tracked the movements, shivers crawling father up his spine, before noting how John's eyes swept up and down his younger son, as though sizing him up. Sam didn't like that one bit, and suddenly felt dangerously exposed in front of his family. He was hit with the same eerie need to cover some deep part of him up as he had been last night with Andrew, who was now looking at the table, bored.

"Sit," John sighed with a stern and frightening authority, gesturing toward the empty chair, pushed back from the table as though in a hurry. An exclamation. An argument. But a quiet one, kept from waking Sam. One, apparently, about him. He noticed how everyone was standing, and sat slowly and stiffly, like a child knowing he was about to be punished. Goddamn it, Sam hadn't _done anything._ Had he? He couldn't build himself up to feel the anger he usually did when lectured by his father. Some strange fear had wiggled its way into his heart, leaving room for nothing else. Sam had to force himself to take a breath.

John pulled up a chair facing the other way and sat down, his harms hanging with well disguised tension across its back. The position seemed like something straight out of a cheesy cop movie, and Sam wanted to laugh. It slipped out, sounding choked. Dean's head snapped to look at Sam again, the horror coming back and Sam knew that he had just made a wrong move in whatever game they were playing.

"What?" He asked, trying to sound annoyed and not scared. When no one answered, he continued, "Come on, dad's playing bad cop and Dean looks like someone just kicked his puppy. Something's up." His tone was raw as he tried to play the situation off. To pretend like Dean wasn't looking at him like he was afraid not just _for_ , but _of_ Sam. Andrew chuckled dryly from across the room, and Sam wanted to punch him. But he wasn't called smart for no reason, and Sam knew attacking the older boy would somehow condemn him. It seemed like there was a fair chance of him still inevitably ending up there though, so Sam let his fists ball under the table.

John seemed incapable of speaking as he continued to stare hard into his son's eyes as though searching for something hidden. He was seeking something out, and Sam shivered to think it was inside of him. Bobby stepped forward, placing a hand gently on the table and speaking carefully.

"Let's just call this a debriefing kid. We're gonna go through yesterday step by step, make sure we didn't miss anything," and he meant let anything go and that was a nasty thought and why were they asking _Sam_ and, "think you can do that with us?"

Sam just stared, his expression confused and annoyed and hurt. Because goddamn it everyone was teaming up against him and no-one seemed to want to tell him a damn thing about it. Dean still hadn't spoken a word.

"There anything you want to tell us boy," Brett asked from beside Bobby, his unwavering gaze commanding authority. Sam remembered how little he liked the man.

"Not that I know of," Sam said, annoyance bleeding into his tone as he held the other man's gaze. "What is going on," he demanded.

"Please. Just, do what they say," Dean spoke quietly, not looking away from the floor, "please." Sam noticed how he avoided saying his name, actually addressing him. As though he wasn't Sam, as though he wasn't Dean's brother. The quiet words sapped Sam of his anger, and he nodded mutely.

Bobby ran a hand over his face, and they began what Sam knew was really an interrogation.

 _Reviews are my rock salt, so let's get this Impala on the road!_


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